On the inside, I'm a poet...
It was warm in the laundry room. Quiet, too, if you ignored the hum and thump from the machines. When stacked up against the current chill of the great outdoors and the chaos of the more popular rooms in the Compound, the laundry room had a lot to recommend it.
Marwood sat on the floor, leaning up against the warmth of the dryer as it studiously tumble-dried his last load. The rest of his (now-clean) clothes were stuffed into a canvas bag at his side, and he couldn't be buggered to fold them. Not when there were more pressing matters at hand.
Marwood tapped his pen against his lips in thought, contemplating the worn notebook resting on his drawn-up knees. He hated poetry. Prose, stageplay and memoir were much more his bag, and besides, when he did feel a yen for verse, he drifted closer to Eliot's "The Waste Land" rather than Shakespeare's Sonnets. Yet here I sit, he scoffed at himself, metaphorical thumb up my quasi-literary arse, trying to remember iambic fucking pentameter. This would be so much easier with a cigarette. "When city streets I walked, and never knew..." he mumbled, scratching the pen on the paper. "A, B, A, B... fuck, is it ten or twelve lines?" For the tenth time that hour, he considered throwing the pad into the bin and forgetting the whole exercise, but Christmas was coming more quickly than he liked, and he'd swore to himself that he'd have it done by then if it killed him. Which it likely would, if not from the effort, than from the sheer embarrassment.
If only there were more words that rhymed with "Briony."
[Frustrated, slightly lovesick writer, doing the wash and making hash of a sonnet. Open to all, new and old, ST/LT.]
Marwood sat on the floor, leaning up against the warmth of the dryer as it studiously tumble-dried his last load. The rest of his (now-clean) clothes were stuffed into a canvas bag at his side, and he couldn't be buggered to fold them. Not when there were more pressing matters at hand.
Marwood tapped his pen against his lips in thought, contemplating the worn notebook resting on his drawn-up knees. He hated poetry. Prose, stageplay and memoir were much more his bag, and besides, when he did feel a yen for verse, he drifted closer to Eliot's "The Waste Land" rather than Shakespeare's Sonnets. Yet here I sit, he scoffed at himself, metaphorical thumb up my quasi-literary arse, trying to remember iambic fucking pentameter. This would be so much easier with a cigarette. "When city streets I walked, and never knew..." he mumbled, scratching the pen on the paper. "A, B, A, B... fuck, is it ten or twelve lines?" For the tenth time that hour, he considered throwing the pad into the bin and forgetting the whole exercise, but Christmas was coming more quickly than he liked, and he'd swore to himself that he'd have it done by then if it killed him. Which it likely would, if not from the effort, than from the sheer embarrassment.
If only there were more words that rhymed with "Briony."
[Frustrated, slightly lovesick writer, doing the wash and making hash of a sonnet. Open to all, new and old, ST/LT.]